


The Start of All Things

by waltwhitmans



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Brief mentions of abusive relationships, M/M, Oh My God, otp: wait that's my word, ten thousand words in a week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 20:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltwhitmans/pseuds/waltwhitmans
Summary: "In case you were wondering, babe," Chasten said, reaching over to brush the hair away from Peter's eyes. "Election night was when I knew I loved you."(Fourteen vignettes inspired by the songs on Hozier's album Wasteland, Baby!)





	The Start of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> I should have known this was coming when I started thirsting over how Pete's butt looks in jeans. Un-beta'd, unedited, and so on. 
> 
> Dedicated to / blamed on Crimson and Pocket. You're both bad influences and if the Secret Service comes for me I'm giving you up.

_ 1) Nina Cried Power  _

_ June 13, 2016 _

It happened during Pride Month. 

Chasten woke up and Peter wasn't next to him in bed. That wasn't unusual, he was an early riser, and it was Sunday. Chasten's first thought was that Peter had gone to church, but he realized that the television was on. He sat up and saw Peter, dressed for church, watching the news. One hand was covering his mouth. He looked like his best friend had just died. 

"Peter," Chasten said. "What's wrong?"

Peter turned to look at Chasten and there were tears in his eyes. "There was a shooting," he said, and the newscaster filled in the rest. Massacre in Florida at a gay club, fifty people killed, most of them LGBTQ. It was now the deadliest mass shooting in American history and it happened in their community. Chasten was out of bed and threw his arms around Peter before the newscaster was finished talking. Less than a year after marriage equality and now fifty people were murdered. Just days earlier they had been celebrating Pride at the White House. 

The next night a crowd had gathered at Seitz Park for a vigil. There had been candles lit and songs sung at the LGBTQ center. Here, the river lights were shining the rainbow, and the mayor stepped up to make some unscripted remarks. They had held hands walking from the car to the park, as the crowd gathered, up until the moment Peter took his spot in front of the gazebo. "I did not prepare a speech, because I did not realize that there would be this many of you," he began, but if Chasten knew anything about Peter it was that he was often as his best when he was unprepared. Tonight was no different. "All social evil flows from peoples' ability to look at another person and not see a person. All social good comes from the ability to look at another person and view that person as worth as much or more than ourselves. We've got a word for that experience; that thing that happens when you look at another person and you see something that matters more to you than you. It's called love."

Chasten watched Peter, heard him speak from the heart as a leader and a member of a wounded community. It was nearly a year to the day since he had come out. Hell of a way to mark the anniversary. He thought about walking near this park on their first date, watching the fireworks from the stadium, and kissing Peter in the parking lot. He'd been surprised at first but got over it quickly. When Chasten broke the kiss and pulled away, Peter looked as if he could hear his inner bell ring as though it were rung by a thousand angels. Chasten had smiled at him, to get him to calm down and start breathing again. "Don't tell me that was your first kiss," he said. 

"First in a long time," Peter said. 

If holding hands was a radical statement and kissing your boyfriend was tantamount to a revolution, then an openly gay mayor offering love and solidarity to the LGBTQ community after an unthinkable tragedy was a completely new, untested idea. But they were all there, and they accepted the hand reaching for them. They wanted him to lead the way. That night he would lead them to the river to watch the lights - after that, they trusted him to stand for them. It spoke volumes. 

Peter reached for Chasten as soon as he was finishing speaking and they walked down to the water without a word. The look on Peter's face said everything. He was grieving the loss, but determined to look forward and be motivated by love. They joined the crowd at the fence and watched the lights silently, the only sound being the rush of the water. Chasten held hands with Peter on one side and a woman he had never met on the other. There was no way to go back to life before the massacre, but there was a way forward. There would always be a way forward.

_ 2) Almost (Sweet Music) _

_ September 27, 2015 _

It wasn't until Chasten found himself in the shower, chiseling out the calcium deposits around the drain with a screwdriver, that he would admit to himself that he was nervous. Yes, the guy he was dating was coming to visit for the first time. Yes, he liked this guy more than he'd liked anyone in a long time. Yes, he wanted to make a good impression. The plan was for Peter to call when he was outside the building and Chasten would go down to meet him, and there was no indication that Peter would see any of Chasten's apartment, but better clean than sorry. 

If nothing else he had deep cleaned his apartment and that was a victory in itself. 

It all came together very quickly. On Chasten's last weekend trip to South Bend, Peter had said something about not having been to Chicago in a while, and before Chasten could stop himself, he said, "Why don't you come out for a day and see me?"

"I'd like that," Peter said. 

The plan was for the two of them to get lunch, poke around Peter's old neighborhood to see if any of the restaurants and coffee shops and bookstores he liked were still there, and go to dinner. Peter would not be staying overnight; they weren't there yet. That was okay. Chasten didn't want to rush into anything. 

When he was finished with the bathroom, he had to open the window because the bleach fumes were making him dizzy. The tiny kitchen was spotless, the tinier living room was vacuumed and dusted. Chasten moved on to the hall closet - what if Peter wanted to hang his jacket, if he was wearing one, if he made it into the apartment? He opened the door and was immediately horrified to see the box of his ex's stuff, right there at eye level on the shelf. His ex's stuff! The box even had his name on it! Chasten grabbed it, opened it. It was all there, just like when he shoved it into the box months earlier. The t-shirts, the Fitbit, the toothbrush and electric razor. He'd exiled it to the box when the ex left for the last time, assuming that he would eventually want it back. But it had been several months, and even before Chasten blocked his number the only sign of life was the occasional horny text at two in the morning, so either he couldn't summon the ability to act like a decent person to ask for his stuff back, or he didn't care. 

The smell of the ex's obnoxious cologne wafted up from the box. Chasten slammed the lid back on. This had to go. He was moving on, he had moved on, Peter was on I-94 at that very moment coming specifically to spend time with him. Chasten had reacted poorly to the break-up - getting drunk and crying to "Walking After Midnight" stood out, unfortunately - but he was over it and this box of bad memories was going in the trash. He brought the box to the garbage chute in the hallway, shoved it in, and closed the hatch. There. Take that. 

By noon the apartment was as clean as it had ever been, cleaner than it had been when Chasten moved in. Chasten was showered and dressed and waiting for his phone to buzz. Peter was just going to park on the street and text him. Right? No sense in parking in a garage and walking. What time did he say he would be there? Around noon, a little after? Unless he got caught in traffic like Chasten had on their first date. He hated this waiting. 

At six minutes after twelve, the phone rang. "I'm outside," Peter said. "You ready?" 

"Sure. Did you want to come up for anything?"

"I'm actually really hungry, so I just want to get to the restaurant."

The apartment was clean. Little victories still counted. And maybe he'd come up later.

_ 3) Movement _

_ August 17, 2018 _

Peter came back from his conference with the Illinois Democrats a little quiet. Not in a bad or worrisome way. It was a thoughtful kind of quiet. He was thinking about something serious. Chasten knew well enough to not press Peter on it. He would talk about it when he was ready. 

He hadn't gone with Peter to Illinois; school was starting in a couple of weeks and he had to get ready. He had watched the speech the day after; the video was uploaded to Vimeo. Peter was there to fill in for Vice President Biden, who had to cancel at the last minute. "Seems like a Hail Mary pass," he said as he was packing for the trip. "Can't get the Vice President, ask a mayor from a state over."

"Obama said you're the future of the party. Our wedding got a full page in the New York Times."

"I thought they would have asked Tammy Duckworth first." 

Dick Durbin introduced him, read off his CV. It was interesting to watch Peter's face when other people were saying nice things about him. He often looked like he wanted them to stop the compliments and get on with what really mattered. He stood at the podium and worked the audience beautifully. He made jokes about how unpronounceable his name was, how long he could talk about wastewater, how nobody had come expecting to see him. Peter was energized, he was passionate, not only for the state of Illinois or for Democrats but for the entire country. "When the other side was losing its mind, our side felt like it was losing its voice," he said. "And yet I am as energized and as optimistic as at any time in my lifetime, and even though I'm speaking to you from my tender age, I would say at any time during modern times. There has never been such excitement and such potential for our party and for our country."

He had the audience eating out of his hand. They cheered when he swore, and when he said it was the two month anniversary of his marriage. "It's not that I don't want to go back, it's that I literally can't," he said. Politics mattered because decisions made by politicians guided his life and determined his future. Three thousand people were hanging on his every word like it was a lifeline. He got a standing ovation at the end. So much for disappointment over not getting to see Biden. 

Chasten wasn't expecting a full postmortem of the event so he was surprised when Peter began talking about it, unprompted, that night. They were in their bedroom, folding laundry. Peter was folding a pile of undershirts with military precision. At the foot of the bed, Truman snoozed, snoring quietly. "Everyone wanted to shake my hand," he said. "Everyone. Senator Durbin wanted a picture with me. So did Congresswoman Bustos."

"You did a good job. They responded to your energy." 

"It was more than a response. It was - it felt like they were hungry for something. To feel hopeful again, about the future of the party. About America. And I was giving them what they needed." Peter folded a shirt, and then another. The wheels were turning in his head. "Chasten."

"Yes, Peter."

"I'm seriously thinking about running for president." 

Chasten dropped the socks he was folding. " _ President? _ " he repeated. "Like - for real? You're really thinking about that?"

"Yeah. I was thinking about it as I was driving home. Who are people talking about for the primary next year? Biden, Sanders, Elizabeth Warren. They've all been in Washington for years. I'm not part of that. A senator can spend their entire career in charge of fifty employees. I oversee thousands of city workers and a budget in the hundred millions. I have more executive experience than the president or vice president, more government experience than the president. Democrats win when we elect a young outsider. I can't be any more outside of the establishment if I tried." 

None of that was untrue, and he made a good point, but - president? Chasten felt he had adjusted well to his role as the First Gentleman of South Bend, and he had been mentally preparing for Peter to run for governor in the future. Making the jump from mayor to president had never been done before. Guiliani tried and he got walloped. How was a Midwestern mayor, not even forty years old, going to convince the country that he was the best choice to lead them? 

But. 

The current president was a reality show host, a complete blowhard with an IQ smaller than his shoe size, who cozied up to dictators and cheated on his wife with porn stars. The Democratic party leadership seemed paralyzed when it came to dealing with the havoc his administration was wreaking every day. The last president had been a smart, thoughtful, charismatic young man who hadn't spent a lot of time in Washington. So were Clinton and Carter and Kennedy. Nothing said it couldn't happen again. Maybe they needed for it to happen again. 

"If it's my moment, then people will respond to it," Peter said. "If not, then I'll be fine. But I need you to do this with me. I can't do it without you." 

Chasten put the clothes back in the basket, put the basket on the floor, and kissed Peter so hard they nearly fell over. "You're amazing," he said. "You're brilliant, you're thoughtful, you love this country so much. America would be lucky to have you for president." 

"I haven't made up my mind yet. I'm still thinking about it."

"When you make up your mind," Chasten said. "I'll be here." 

The conversation turned from politics to finishing the laundry, and plans for the weekend, and Truman's next vet appointment. Chasten almost forgot about what Peter had said until he was almost asleep and heard Peter say, so softly he thought he was dreaming, "I can't do it without you. I can't."

In the dark, without his glasses on, Chasten fumbled until he found Peter's arm, and held his wrist gently. He didn't have to say anything. 

In the morning, Chasten woke up when he felt Peter twist around to face him. He opened his eyes and looked at the blurry face of his husband. It was a few minutes past sunrise; the color of the room was lightening. Peter's hair was in his eyes and he was squinting at Chasten. He looked beautiful. Chasten knew he'd been lying there thinking about running for president all night, and he needed to hear something to reassure him that he wasn't crazy to ask the question. 

"In case you were wondering, babe," Chasten said, reaching over to brush the hair away from Peter's eyes. "Election night was when I knew I loved you."

"I know," Peter said. "That was when I knew too."

Outside a bird sang. The alarm was going to go off at any minute. Chasten put his arm around Pete and pulled him close. 

_ 4) No Plan _

_ November 3, 2015 _

Only in South Bend would there still be a working TV with rabbit ears. Chasten had been there since the night before, helping with the final push over the finish line, canvassing and making phone calls. If asked, he said he was dating the mayor, but mostly people didn't ask. South Bend was a small city but not so small that everyone knew everyone else. He could still fly under the radar. 

Peter wouldn't admit to it but he was nervous. Chasten understood. Peter had spent his first term as the Bachelor Mayor, declining offers from constituents to set him up with their bright and lovely daughters and nieces, and he'd come out because he couldn't stand it anymore, and he was running for re-election without knowing how his socially conservative community would take it. Of course he was nervous. He acted like it didn't bother him. Chasten tried to console him. "It won't be the end of the world if you lose," he said, the night before the election, at Peter's kitchen table. "Your life is yours to run. You chose to come out because you wanted to have a personal life. That's not nothing."

"Being mayor is the best job I've ever had," Peter said. "People have trusted me to make this city a place they would be proud to live in."

"And you have."

"If they don't vote for me then I haven't done everything I can to earn their votes. They don't trust me."

"You're getting ahead of yourself." 

"If they decide they can't support me after I came out -"

"Peter," Chasten said. "How many times have you shown me that picture of the marquee at the theater? How often do people come up to you to tell you you're doing a good job? How long has it been since South Bend elected a Republican? It's in the bag." 

"You think so?"

"In a landslide. I'll call it now. What was your margin last time?"

"Seventy-four percent."

"If you're not over seventy-five," Chasten said, "I owe you a beer. And an apology."

On their first date Peter had been honest about his career path. He was up for re-election, and if he won and had a good second term, maybe he'd be looked at to run for governor in the future. Dating a politician was an instant turn-off for some, but Chasten didn't feel like he was dating a politician. At the restaurant and the baseball game Peter was the exact same person he'd been over the phone. There was no "Mayor Pete" mask he put on in public. That was just who he was. 

On Election Day there was nothing to do but press on: keep making phone calls, keep an eye on the precincts. Peter voted early and then went back to his office. He wanted to work instead of watching the news. Crammed into the room that night were a few staffers, Kathryn and Mark among them; Peter's friend Mike, who had run his high school campaign for class president and both campaigns for mayor; Peter's parents, whom Chasten had only been introduced to a few weeks earlier; and Chasten himself, watching Peter fiddle with the antenna as the signal faded in and out. He wasn't nervous at all. 

The results came in a little after eight. Even the reporters on TV were happy. Mayor Pete Buttigieg re-elected with eighty percent of the vote. A landslide, just like Chasten predicted. The small contingent in the office cheered, hugged each other. Peter shook hands and embraced his parents before turning to Chasten. "I guess I'm the one who owes you a beer."

"I guess you are."

An hour later the party was with supporters at the West Side Democratic Club. Peter stood behind the podium without prepared remarks. He hadn't written a victory speech or a concession. Either way, he would speak from the heart, and he did. He spoke to the crowd about being an unknown four years earlier, and how they'd taken a chance on the new kid; how they'd supported him unfailingly when he was deployed halfway across the world; and how, only a few months earlier, they had embraced him as a son. As Peter spoke Chasten came to realize that he had never, in his life, felt so deeply about anyone. He had spent almost every weekend of the past two months in South Bend with Peter, both in private on dates and in public helping to get him re-elected. When Peter looked at him, he  _ saw _ him. It seemed mutual, too. When Peter said, "I love South Bend," he was looking directly at Chasten.

_ 5) Nobody _

_ December 18, 2018 _

In Peter's office before the press conference, Chasten did his usual pre-interview inspection. He helped Peter choose a tie, picked a bit of lint off his jacket, fixed his hair, straightened his South Bend flag pin. "Am I ready?" Peter asked.

"Ready for prime time."

"Where would I be without you?"

"Still wearing those hideous khakis."

"They weren't so bad."

"Yes, they were. Someday you'll thank me." Chasten took Peter's hands in his. "You got this, babe. Knock 'em dead." 

Less than a dozen people knew what was really going on. The public could speculate all they wanted but nobody in the know was saying a word until the time was right. 

Chasten took his place right behind the podium, with staff members, as Peter got his papers organized and reporters got settled. Shutters clicked and flashes popped as Peter began by listing the many accomplishments that South Bend had achieved in his two terms as mayor: smart sewers, the revitalization of downtown, the 311 center, the 1000 Homes project. He wouldn't take sole credit for any of them; the city wasn't one man, it was a hundred thousand people, and they had come together. "For most of the decade now, I have given everything that I can to helping this city get to a new future. And I love this job,” Peter said. “And I’m mindful that it may well be the best job that I will ever have. But it’s also not the kind of job you do forever." 

Peter promised to keep up the work he was already doing, because he had made a commitment and he would see it through. He wouldn't comment on getting involved in the race, if he planned on endorsing a candidate, if anyone in his administration was going to run, if he was going to run for another office. "Can you comment on whether or not you'll be running for president?" one reporter asked.

"Nope," Peter said, and left it at that. 

After the handshakes and hugging, the press conference was over. It was time to get back to work. Chasten followed Peter back to his office, closed the door. It was just the two of them. "I heard you choking up toward the end there," he said. "I know how much you love this job."

"It's the best thing I've ever done," Peter said. "Well, second best." 

"What's the best?"

"Marrying you." 

"I knew it was coming but I had to ask." 

"You love it when I get cheesy." 

They stood in front of the floor to ceiling window, looking out over the expanse of downtown South Bend. The sky was dull grey. It was going to snow that night. Peter put his arm over Chasten's shoulders. "I like the sunsets best from this window," he said. "If the weather was better you could watch it go down. The whole sky turns pink and gold, and fades into purple, and the stars come out. In the spring you can see the Big Dipper right in the center."

"I know how many late nights you've spent here."

"If I'm president I'll have late nights every night. And you can still see the Big Dipper in Washington."

"Now that's cheesy, even for you." 

Peter kissed Chasten on the temple. "First things first," he said. "Next year we start making announcements."

"It'll be the year of Pete Buttigieg," Chasten said, trying to channel Leo McGarry. "And you'll prove that a good man can be elected president." 

"I hope so," Peter said. The first few tiny snowflakes began to fall.

_ 6) To Noise Making (Sing) _

_ January 27, 2017 _

Traffic getting to the airport was a nightmare and Chasten worried that they would miss it. It seemed like all of Houston was converged on the airport, and for a very good reason. The first executive order had come down from the new president, and it worse than they imagined: a blanket ban on letting refugees into the United States for one hundred and twenty days, an indefinite ban on letting Syrian refugees in, and blocking citizens of majority Muslim countries from entering for ninety days. Supposedly it was to keep America safe from terrorists, but it seemed like most terrorists in America those days were white men with assault rifles. Peter had been running for DNC chair for less than a month and so far it had been forums, debates, luncheons and fundraisers. None of that seemed too important now. 

Peter wasn't the only candidate in town, and he wasn't the only one trying to get to the airport. Chasten kept an eye on the traffic as Peter kept refreshing Twitter and looking at the news. "Protests are organizing all over," he said. "O'Hare, JFK. John Lewis is at Hartsfield. Joe Donnelly is protesting at Indianapolis."

"Is the ACLU saying anything?"

"They're going to fight it. They're probably filing a motion to stay as we sit here." 

It took nearly two hours to get from the hotel to the protest at the airport. Peter fidgeted and bit his nails for much of the drive. Inside, they joined the crowd gathered by the information desk, chanted  _ "Power to the people, no one is illegal!" _ and  _ "This is what democracy looks like!" _ Perez and Harrison were there. There were people in pink pussy hats and a little girl holding a sign that said "Boo Donald Trump." 

When Peter got his chance to speak all his nerves disappeared. For someone who was incapable of putting on a persona, he could turn on a part of himself that was completely comfortable in front of a crowd. At least he decided to use his powers for good and not for evil. "I bring you progressive greetings from Mike Pence's Indiana," he said. "There are people out there and they're going to hear this all the way to the White House, I know it. We stand in solidarity with everyone who is for justice, for freedom, for our constitution. When the people come together there is no force, certainly no dark force out of Washington, that can stop us. This is what America looks like!" 

They cheered for him. People wanted a selfie with him. The girl with the "Boo Donald Trump" sign got a picture. He was a rock star.

In the parking garage, walking back to the car, Chasten had a thought. "I guess Trump is right," he said. "America will be great again because the American people are going to stand together and kick his ass."

"You had me worried there for a second." 

Chasten threw his arm over Peter's shoulders. "And the new chair of the DNC will lead the charge, with down-ballot races and governorships and a progressive Democrat being elected president in three years." 

"Your lips to God's ears." 

"Those people back there, they didn't know who you were two hours ago but they'd follow you anywhere now."

"Let's just hope they're all voting members of the Democratic National Committee," Peter said.

_ 7) As It Was _

_ December 26, 2015 _

There was a spring digging into the small of Chasten's back, and no matter how he contorted himself, he couldn't get comfortable. It wasn't there the night before. He felt like the princess feeling the pea through a dozen mattresses. It did strike him as kind of ridiculous that he, a grown man with a job and student debt, was sleeping on the pullout couch, and his boyfriend, also a grown man - a mayor, and a veteran, for God's sake - was sleeping upstairs in the guest room. The guest room that was Chasten's childhood bedroom, before he permanently moved out. But they had both agreed to this arrangement to keep the peace, and it wasn't like they were being singled out. All unmarried couples had to sleep separately, at least the first time they visited. That was just part of life in a Catholic household. 

Chasten sat up. This wasn't working. He put his glasses on and carefully picked his way up the stairs. It was after one in the morning, the day after Christmas. He had gone along with the sleeping arrangements to keep his parents happy, but what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. The bed in the guest room was big enough for two. He would set an alarm on his phone for six so he could get a few hours of decent sleep and sneak back to the basement. 

Chasten didn't want to wake Peter. He crept upstairs, stepping over the creaky spots on the floor, and eased the bedroom door open. Peter was curled up in bed, the quilt pulled up to his nose. He looked adorable. Chasten walked as softly as he could to the bed, lowered himself gently onto it, but the mattress let out a groan and Peter inhaled, lifted his head. "What?"

"Just me," Chasten whispered. 

"What's going on?"

"Couldn't sleep downstairs. The couch was hurting my back."

"You're not supposed to be up here. Your mom said."

"I'll get back down there before she wakes up." Chasten set the alarm on his phone for six, got under the quilt. He made a show of putting the phone under his pillow. "See?"

Peter lowered his head. "I don't want to get in trouble with your parents. I'm trying to make a good impression."

"If they find out I'll say you had no idea. You slept through me sneaking in because you had such a good time you were just exhausted." 

"I did have a good time," Peter said. "It was so nice of your parents to make me a stocking."

"They like you," Chasten said. It was true. He wouldn't have believed it, if he could go back and tell his younger self. The Chasten who spent three months couchsurfing and sleeping in his car would never expect to bring a boyfriend home, and to have the boyfriend accepted by his parents. "I mean, I like you, so of course they like you." 

"Aw, you like me?"

"I  _ like _ like you. The cootie catcher said we're going to get married and the MASH game backs me up. We're going to live in a mansion and have ten kids, by the way."

"Well, there's enough room in a mansion for ten kids." Peter paused. "Is it hard, being back here?"

"No. I mean, I remember all of it, but it's over. We're past it. They apologized. My brothers didn't but they're not here so I don't care what they think. The rest of my family doesn't know the whole story and the kids are too young for it. And you're here, so I think I won." 

"I was thinking about it earlier. I came out six months ago and barely got any trouble. You came out when you were eighteen and you were homeless, and your brothers - it's not right."

"I came out when I decided it was time. So did you. Everything after that was out of our hands." 

They lay in silence for such a long time that Chasten thought Peter had fallen asleep. He'd helped Peter settle in when they arrived, and saw, with a little sadness, that all the stuff he'd left behind when he moved out was gone. The posters were taken down, the knick knacks were packed away. There was no trace of the kid who'd grown up there. It was just a room. But it wasn't just a room. Peter was there. 

Chasten double checked his phone to make sure it was on vibrate so it would wake him up. Beside him, Peter shifted. "Chasten?"

"Yeah?" 

"Thank you for bringing me here."

"Thank you for coming."

"Chasten?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you." 

It wasn't the first time Peter had said it, but it was still new enough that Chasten felt the sweet ache in his chest. "I love you too," he said. 

At six in the morning Chasten was woken by his phone. He would rather have stayed where he was and looked at the way Peter's eyelashes lay in the hollows under his eyes, but he forced himself to get up and trudge back down to the basement. He realized that if he lay down diagonally then it was comfortable enough to fall asleep again. He woke up when his father called down that breakfast was ready. At the table, Peter smiled at him over his mug of dark roast, and didn't say anything.

_ 8) Shrike _

_ July 29, 2015 _

Chasten ignored his phone buzzing in his back pocket. He was busy, leading passels of foreign exchange students through O'Hare. Their deer-in-the-headlights expressions were endearing. They reminded him of himself at that age, running off to Germany against his parents' wishes. He wondered idly if any of them were going to go home and come out. He hoped they'd have an easier time of it than he had. 

He was in a good mood. He was proud of himself. He'd been woken up at two in the morning to his phone buzzing. Fearing the worst - something about Mom - he fumbled for it in the dark and opened the text. The message that greeted him was so absurd he started laughing. Two words, from his most recent ex:  _ U up? _ And the tongue-out emoji face. There were times that, without a second thought, he would have answered. But even in the small hours of the morning, he remembered that this guy was a loser and lousy in bed and it could only end badly. Again. Instead, he deleted all of their texts and blocked the number, then lay back down to sleep the sleep of the just. 

Chasten had recently come to a decision. Or maybe it was more of a revelation. He was never going to find love. It just wasn't going to happen. He was okay with that. He watched his friends celebrate marriage equality and knew he'd never get married. Plenty of people lived happy and fulfilling lives without ever falling in love. He couldn't think of any off the top of his head but he was sure it was true. Even if it wasn't, it was better than what he already had. Better to be alone by yourself than to be alone right next to someone. 

It was another couple of hours before Chasten was able to sit down at B5 for a few minutes and check his phone. Emails for grad school, Instagram notifications, the news app had new stories - Trump was serious about running for president, apparently. It took him a second to remember what the last icon was for. He'd set up the Hinge profile a few months back and then more or less forgotten about it. He'd been busy, and nothing was happening, and he'd sworn off love anyway. But he was intrigued. The worst it could be was a dick pic. He opened it. 

The first thing he noticed was proper spelling and grammar. The message itself wasn't that telling - a  _ Game of Thrones _ reference. But he could spell and knew the difference between "their" and "there." A promising start. He clicked on the profile. Oh, he was cute. Very cute. Dark hair, steel blue eyes, nice smile. The pictures weren't bad either. One of him in fatigues in a desert, one from a beach (another point in his favor) and...one with him standing behind a podium surrounded by people clapping. Was this a prank? 

He couldn't spell the guy's last name so he copied and pasted it into Google. Results came right up: sitting mayor of South Bend, Indiana. Harvard graduate, Phi Beta Kappa, Rhodes Scholar, veteran of the war in Afghanistan, a bunch of mayoral accomplishments, pictures of him cutting ribbons and giving speeches. He was handsome, and he could spell, and he was interesting, and how in the hell did you pronounce that last name? He found a YouTube video with the basic details and an interview with the guy: he talked about service, and decency, and honesty. A man approached him at an event to shake his hand and said, "We're gonna get you to run for president."

"I have my hands full here," he answered. 

The last thing he looked at was an op-ed from June. It was called "Why Coming Out Matters." Two weeks before marriage equality became the law of the land, he came out. Chasten had heard plenty of coming out stories before, and he'd told his own more times than he liked to remember, but this was new. A politician was coming out not because he'd been caught with a secret boyfriend or a male prostitute or picking up a guy in an airport, but because he was ready. He wanted to have a family. It was time. 

Chasten closed the article, went back to Hinge. He'd have to get back to work soon. He opened Peter Buttigieg's profile and started typing.

_ 9) Talk _

_ March 18, 2016 _

Sometimes Chasten would start to feel the walls closing in on him. He would look around the room and suddenly get the sensation that he didn't belong there. It happened mostly when he was in public, at school or at work, but occasionally it would take hold at home, wherever he was living. The place he was supposed to feel safest and most at ease became alien to him. He shouldn't have been surprised that it happened right after moving in with Peter. It was just a part of who he was. 

That night Peter was out late for Mayor's Night Out. Chasten was still settling in, unpacking the boxes he brought from Chicago. He was playing music on his phone but the big house was mostly quiet. As he was shelving books in the bookcase Peter rearranged for him, he started thinking about the house. It was a beautiful house, old and grand, falling apart in some places but Peter was dedicated to fixing the broken things. He thought about the history of the house, how it had been built over a hundred years ago and had seen the rise and fall and rise of South Bend. Peter had bought it for a song because it was so dilapidated. He was dedicated to making it home. Kind of an abstract concept for Chasten. He'd been homeless, and he'd slept on friends' couches and in his car. He'd lived in dorms and apartments, with other people and by himself. Home was the place he left when he came out, for a few months at first and then permanently. 

Chasten felt his face warm up. What was he doing here? Peter was the most stable, steady person he'd ever met. He was dependable, and trustworthy. Obviously it wasn't going to work out. He would find someone. No. Scratch that. He deserved someone better. Someone without the baggage and the heartbreak and the wall around his heart. It was quite clear. Chasten would just have to prepare himself for the inevitable so why unpack at all? 

When Peter got home two hours later, he was in a good mood. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "I got stuck with this elderly couple with a thousand questions about trash pickup. Did you unpack your books?"

"No," Chasten said. He was curled up on the sofa looking at his phone. Sometimes watching cute animal videos helped. This time it didn't. 

"Oh. Well, maybe over the weekend we can put that new shelf together."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you want a beer or anything?"

A kitten had made friends with an armadillo. "No thanks." 

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." Chasten sat up. Peter was standing by the kitchen door, tie loosened, hands in his pockets. He looked worried. 

"Are you sure?" 

"I don't expect you to understand," Chasten said tartly. "It's not really your problem."

"Why are you talking to me like I'm your enemy?" 

"Don't put that on me."

"Put what on you? What's going on?"

"I'm - it's not - "

"Chasten." Peter looked so caring, so loving, so reasonable, so goddamn calm. Chasten hated his tone of voice. He wanted to kiss him. "You can tell me." 

"Upstairs," Chasten said, nearly choking on it. If he said anything more he would have begun to cry. 

Peter followed Chasten up the stairs to the bedroom, closed the door behind them with a soft click. "Don't say anything," Chasten said. "I need to - just don't say anything."

He didn't say a word, just stood with his back to the door as Chasten, shaking with nervous energy, got ready for bed even though he didn't feel the slightest bit tired. He left his clothes in a heap on the floor, nearly forgot his glasses by the bathroom sink. Peter watched him, silently. Chasten looked at him. His back was perfectly straight. That was the military for you. "Well?"

"I'll get undressed," Peter said. "Get into bed."

Chasten lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, a piece of the flesh on the inside of his lip between his eye teeth. He heard Peter change, the clicking of the hanger as he hung up his jacket, the swish of his tie as he undid the knot, the soft thud of his slacks hitting the floor. He was as quiet as he could be. Chasten loved him so much. 

The light disappeared as Peter turned the lamp off. The bed dipped, and creaked as he got in and lay down. Chasten felt Peter's cool, dry hand slip into his hot one, and locked their fingers together. "I'm not asking you to tell me what's going on," he said softly. "I'm not saying you have to tell me. But I want to know what's going on because I'm your boyfriend and I love you and I get worried when I see you like this. We're not the mayor and his partner right now. There are no staffers, no press, no supporters or volunteers or protesters to hear us. It's just you and me, love." 

Chasten couldn't say anything at first, but he could let his lip out of his teeth. Peter squeezed his hand.  _ "Camerado, I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?" _

"Sometimes I think I shouldn't get too comfortable here because you're probably going to dump me for someone smarter or better looking or whatever."

Peter exhaled through his nose. "Do I act like I'm going to do that?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just - I have a shitty track record when it comes to relationships. Boyfriends cheated on me, we fought, it got physical, it was toxic. I know you'd never do that. I _know_. But I can't make the voice in the back of my head shut up. It's hard."

"I know."

"Do you?" 

"Your past is different from mine and your perspective is different." 

"You think I don't know that?" Chasten said, and then regretted. "Sorry."

"It's okay. What are you really worried about?"

The quiet in the room was crushing him. All he could hear was Peter breathing. "That I'm not as good as you. That you can do better. And I'll be alone. I love you, I love you  _ so much, _ and if you ditched me because I'm not enough then I don't know what I'd do. I thought I'd be alone forever until we met."

"Look at me."

"Peter -"

"Look at me." 

Chasten turned his head. In the dim light filtering through the blinds Peter's fair skin had taken on a light blue shade. His eyes glistened. "You're enough," he said. "You're more than enough. You mean everything to me. I spent half my life in the closet, and I was so alone and I hated myself but I don't regret any of it, because I came out at the right time and met you. You're the love of my life."

"I'm the only boyfriend you've ever had."

"Sometimes you get lucky on your first shot." Peter lifted Chasten's hand to his mouth and kissed it. "I did." 

Outside the wind rustled the trees. In the morning, Peter was going to go to work as the mayor and Chasten was driving to Chicago for class. Neither of them would talk about this with other people. "Just hold me," Chasten said. "I'm so tired."

Peter let go of Chasten's hand and rearranged himself, lay down on top of him and fit his legs between Chasten's, tucked his head under Chasten's chin. "Like that?"

"Yeah," Chasten said. He felt safe. 

"Your heart is pounding."

"It's slowing down."

"Can you get to sleep?"

"Yes."

He was asleep a few minutes later, still listening to Peter breathe.

_ 10) Be _

_ October 7th, 2015 _

For the first time in his relatively short dating life Chasten found himself to be the more experienced partner. It wasn't surprising, really. Peter had been in the closet for so long, he'd never had a boyfriend before, hadn't dated at all since college. He and Peter set up a date night on a Friday, both agreeing to the unspoken assumption that Chasten would be staying the night. He packed lube and condoms in his overnight bag but didn't mention it while they were at dinner, or when they were watching the illuminations on the Jefferson Boulevard Bridge, or hanging their jackets up in the closet. "Are you ready for bed?" Chasten asked, sounding as noncommittal as possible. 

"Not yet," Peter said mildly. "I was thinking about putting a pot of coffee on."

Oh. "Sure."

The coffee was good, after Chasten added milk and enough sugar to make Peter raise an eyebrow. Then Peter suggested a movie, and they spent fifteen minutes looking at the myriad of choices before choosing  _ Gangs of New York _ . It was too long by half and the accents were ridiculous, but Scorsese came through on direction. It was almost midnight when Peter turned the TV off. "Well," he said.

"Uh-huh," Chasten said. He knew of a useful trick in situations like this: clench your thighs as hard as you can to keep from getting an erection. His thighs were starting to hurt. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for bed."

"So am I," Peter said. 

Now they were getting somewhere. Chasten excused himself to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Peter had already changed into pajamas when he came back, and while he was washing up Chasten stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts, got the lube and condoms out of his bag, sat in bed, and waited. If there was a more obvious way to say_ I want sex, with you, tonight_, he couldn't think of it. 

Peter came back from the bathroom, got into bed. "So," Chasten said. "We've been dating for a little over a month."

"We have," Peter said.

"And I know that you're not - that I'm your first boyfriend. So I'll follow whatever lead you want. I'm not in a hurry."

"But you came prepared."

"A guy can dream." 

Peter smiled. "I appreciate your candor and your preparation."

"But?" 

"There's this thing in the military called training age. If you're a forty year old major and your MOS is field artillery, and then you transfer to intelligence, your training age is the same as a twenty year old private who just started. Longevity isn't the same as experience. It's not as good." 

"So you're the major starting a new job?"

"Metaphorically speaking. Let's just - let's take it slow."

They did, that first night, and the night after. There was no rush. Chasten was enthusiastic but he didn't mind. Every relationship he had up to that point had either been toxic, or it had ended badly, and it was enough to turn a person off sex. There were guys who only wanted sex and didn't care what came after, and guys who pretended to be interested as long as sex was available, and guys who would take it even if it wasn't given freely. Peter wasn't like that. He wanted to fall in love. 

Peter was gentle. He hesitated, until Chasten said it was okay. He was vocal about what he liked and what he didn't. He was a quick study. He was appreciative of Chasten, complimentary about all the areas of his body he didn't like, affectionate before and after, and never averse to cuddling after. He even put down a towel so neither of them would have to lie in the wet stop. He was leaving his old life behind. 

On the first night, when they were spent, Peter brushed the side of his finger over Chasten's cheek. "Just be patient with me," he said. 

"Always," Chasten said. 

_ 11) Dinner & Diatribes  _

_ February 14, 2019 _

The ultimate price of your husband running for president was becoming quite clear: you never had a chance to spend free time with him anymore. They'd been going for just over a month, and more often than not these days Peter was traveling, hitting Iowa and New Hampshire. Chasten had taken leave from work to support his husband, and as much as he missed his kids, he couldn't stay home and let Peter do it all by himself. This was important. 

There were some things he wouldn't budge on. Date night was still on for every week, Wednesday if possible, and an actual night as often they could. He would settle for lunch or a few hours alone or at the absolute least sitting next to each other on a flight. When they weren't together there was a phone call before bed. They didn't read the comments on the YouTube videos. Peter agreed to every condition and added one. "It's a privilege to be able to do this," he said. "And it's going to be the hardest thing we'll ever do. So we should try and have some fun with it."

"Your idea of fun is discussing roundabouts with city planners."

"I'll let you be in charge of it." 

Chasten had to give him credit. Being in New York for Valentine's Day was fun. Peter was on  _ The Late Show _ for the first time. Lis had worked her magic; maybe she promised the firstborn she would never have to one of the producers. He got to meet Bradley Cooper and watched Peter on the monitor in the green room. It wasn't the first time he'd been on a late night show but this was his introduction to the wider world, and you can't do better than Colbert. 

"Great show," Stephen said to them when the taping was finished, shaking their hands. "Good luck to you both." 

Because it was Valentine's Day they went to dinner at a bacon themed restaurant, and then walked up a few blocks and around Columbus Circle. Central Park stayed open until one in the morning, so they took their time getting to the Bethesda Terrace. Hand in gloved hand, they stood in front of the fountain - turned off in the winter so the pipes wouldn't freeze - and looked up at the Angel. "Happy Valentine's Day," Peter said. "I know it's probably not what you expected for our first as a married couple." 

"I'm with you," Chasten said. His breath hung in the air; the tip of his nose was frozen. "That's all I need." 

They were leaving in the morning. There was no time to go back to the Brooklyn Bridge and walk across like they'd done on the first trip to New York they'd taken together, when they'd only been dating for a few months. Peter recited part of a Whitman poem about the Brooklyn Ferry as they crossed, hand-in-hand, from Centre Street in Manhattan to Adams Street in Brooklyn, over the cars rushing in both directions. Chasten was quietly thrilled that his boyfriend could recite poetry from memory. He'd never dated someone like that before. 

(Months later Chasten saw on Instagram pictures of Peter walking across the Brooklyn Bridge with Lis and Saralena and a few others, and if he concentrated hard enough he could feel the cold air on his face, and Peter's voice in his ear saying,  _ we plant you permanently within us, we fathom you not, we love you, there is perfection in you also, _ and it was almost enough.)

There were fundraisers, and rallies, meet and greets and TV interviews and radio call-ins, and Chasten would sometimes wake up in a hotel room, either by himself or with Peter, and he would not know where he was. Knowing where he was and where he had to be was Emily's job. But he always knew when date night would be.

_ 12) Would That I _

_ June 8, 2016 _

No big deal, but the President and First Lady were on the other side of the room and Chasten thought he might accidentally bite through his tongue if either of them spoke to him. But no big deal. He was drinking champagne in the White House, in the same room as the President and First Lady. He was fine. Incredibly calm. Peter came up behind him and touched his arm. He jumped. 

"Sorry," Peter said.

"I'm okay. What's up?" 

"Just thought I'd check in. You're looking a little...out of sorts."

"I am freaking out," Chasten said. "Before I met you I was a teacher and I didn't know anybody. Now I'm standing in the White House because my boyfriend is a mayor. How are you so calm right now?"

Pete shrugged. "I'm used to it. I've had to work with governors and senators before. They're just people, when you get down to it."

"Michelle Obama is not  _ just people, _ Peter Paul." 

To preserve Chasten's composure, they left the room. The reception wasn't confined to one room; other people were milling around the West Wing, peeking into the famous rooms. Maybe some of them were measuring curtains in their minds. The LGBT Pride Reception was a celebration of all the work that had been done, all the achievements made, and a reminder of everything that was ahead. President Obama was going to deliver remarks in the East Room that evening. 

Chasten got Peter to take a picture of him sitting under a portrait of Jacqueline Kennedy. He heard the comparison of Peter to JFK and RFK before, and it wasn't like Peter discouraged them. Mostly it came from people who wanted Peter to run for higher office. There were people in South Bend who thought that Peter should run for president, and some who thought he should run for governor, and some who would be happy if he fucked off and never ran for anything again. It was known in South Bend that Peter wasn't going to be mayor forever. He would always be a big fish, and the pond was getting smaller. So much lay ahead of him. Governor, sure. Senator, maybe. President? Chasten didn't know how he felt about that. It was so far away he didn't think about it that much. 

They looked at the Blue Room, the Red Room, and the Diplomatic Reception Room before heading back to the East Room to hear the President. He stood at the podium a little after five to speak. "History doesn’t just travel forward; it can go backwards if we don’t work hard. So we can’t be complacent. We cannot be complacent. Securing the gains this country has made requires perseverance and vigilance. And it requires voting. Because we’ve got more work to do." 

There was always work to be done. But sometimes it was okay to celebrate what you'd already accomplished. 

"If Clinton offers you a job," Chasten said later, in the hotel room, "would you take it?"

"What kind of job would she offer me?"

"I don't know. Special Advisor to the President on Rural Affairs. Would you?"

"If I thought I could do the most good, then yes. I do have three years left in my term, though." 

"If you're not running for governor."

"I said I  _ might _ be looked at," Peter said. There was a playful glint in his eye. "Don't start picking carpet samples for the governor's mansion yet." 

"I thought I'd measure for curtains first." 

Peter laughed, and kissed him.

_ 13) Sunlight _

_ December 29, 2016 _

So maybe Chasten's legs were unsteady and his hands shook for a while after they landed in Bucharest, but he'd never actually believed he was going to die before. He held the Paddington Bear tightly and assured Peter that he was fine, back on terra firma, the plane was in one piece and they'd see each other in Berlin in two days. All good. Nothing to worry about. Peter sounded so scared. 

It did strike Chasten as...interesting, that the first person he thought to contact was Peter, instead of his parents. He could try and logic himself out of the obvious - he didn't want them to worry, and Peter was supposed to be joining him anyway - but there was no getting away from it. He texted Peter because he wanted Peter to be the first to know in case he died. That meant everything. It meant that what Chasten suspected was true. He was ready. But he also knew that Peter wasn't. There was no way to make him ready, and Chasten wasn't going to force him into something or give him an ultimatum.

In the hotel he reread the frantic texts he'd sent from the plane.  _ Captain said making landing for "secret reason" - love you love you love you. _ And Peter's response, _ I love you Chasten _ , God, he was probably so upset he could barely type. In his absence in the bed, Paddington was on the other pillow. It wouldn't be fair to take Peter from one emotionally fraught situation to another by asking him to get married. But Chasten also knew that he wouldn't be able to keep it to himself. That was just how he was: he couldn't keep big feelings like that inside.

_ He needs time _ , Chasten thought as he was falling asleep. In the morning the thought was still with him, and it became quite clear. If he needed time, then give him time. Chasten's high school German was still pretty good, and there was a jeweler a few blocks from the hotel. When he met Peter the box was heavy in his coat pocket. It was a promise. 

"For a few minutes I thought I'd never see you again," Peter said, after hugging Chasten slightly too tight. "I was a mess. Pacing, biting my nails."

"I'm here," Chasten said. "You're here." 

"I've never been so scared in my life."

"Walk with me."

Fitting that this was happening in Germany, the place where Chasten had come to accept himself, where he'd stopped being afraid of his own truth. Ten years had passed and now he was here, walking the same streets, about to tell his boyfriend how seriously he felt. The sun had gone down, and it was chilly as they walked to the Brandenburg Gate. "I haven't been here since I was seventeen," Chasten began. He hadn't planned on what he wanted to say; he would just let it come naturally. "When I first came here I didn't know who I was. I was just a kid from a small town, and I came here to try and figure out where I fit in the world. This was where I realized that I was gay, and that I had to tell my family."

Peter knew the whole story of everything that came after that. He didn't say anything. Chasten continued. "I was terrified on the plane as we were landing, but I wasn't really afraid of  _ dying _ . All I could think about was how unfair it was that I would lose the chance to have a life with you." 

Chasten reached into his pocket and took out the box. Peter had caught on to what was going on, and he looked like a frightened puppy. Chasten could see him working it out in his head, trying to figure out how to let him down as easy as possible. It was kind of endearing. "I'm not going to get down on one knee. I know you're not ready for marriage, but I want you to know how I feel." He pressed the box into Peter's hands. "So, instead of a ring, I'm giving you time." 

Peter opened the box. One hand flew to cover his mouth. "It's beautiful," he said. "Thank you."

"When I saw it, I knew it was perfect."

"Do you mean that?" Peter asked. "That you're - after two years?"

"I've been around the block a few times. I know what I want." 

"And I'm not -"

"I'll wait," Chasten said. He smiled at his loving but bewildered boyfriend. The love of his life. "I waited for you long enough."

Before he could react Peter was holding him, kissing him. Chasten relaxed into the embrace. So what if it took a near-death experience for him to propose. He was firmly on the ground. 

_ 14) Wasteland, Baby! _

_ June 17, 2018 _

It happened during Pride Month.

Chasten thought he would be too exhausted to stay awake for long once they got home. He'd been awake since dawn and had buzzed around full of nervous energy until it was time to get ready and go to the church. Instead, it was a few minutes past two in the morning and he was wide awake. Peter, on the other hand, had, after changing out of his suit - carefully hanging it up, picking gravel out of his shoes, and putting his boutonniere back in the box and putting it in the fridge - washed his face, and gone to bed. He was asleep on his side, head on Chasten's pillow and perfectly still. The sound of his breathing wasn't audible over the air conditioner. Chasten was so hot and sweaty he left his suit on the back of a chair and changed into a clean shirt and boxers. 

It had started to rain shortly after they got home. The heat wave would turn wet and muggy over the next few days, but they were leaving for Bali, so he didn't care. Quietly, stepping around the creaky spots on the floor, Chasten took care of some last minute housekeeping. He double checked that their passports were current, repacked the bags, watered the plants, threw out the food that was near its expiration date. (He would ask Peter to take the trash out before they left. He'd never know.) The pet sitter was coming by at ten for her instructions. Peter's parents would come for the mail. Everything was taken care of. 

He felt tired, of course. There were the hours before the wedding, the forty-minute ceremony in a stuffy church, crashing the Pride party, two hours of taking pictures in ninety-degree heat, drinking and dancing at the reception until nearly midnight. But he couldn't just wind down like Peter had done. He was still thrumming with energy. If it wasn't raining he'd get the leash and take Truman on a walk. 

Six months of planning had led to one beautiful, joyful day, and now it was over. It was only a few hours ago and already Chasten could barely remember it. Certain images and sensations stuck out in his mind: holding his dad's hand as he walked down the aisle; the look in Peter's eyes and the slight tremble in his voice as he said his vows; the feeling of the ring sliding onto his finger; watching Father Brian sign the register; dancing with his mother at the reception, he'd never seen her so happy. It was all over now. Now Chasten was alone with his thoughts and his husband asleep in their bed. 

_ Husband. _ He would never get tired of that. 

Chasten brought the bags downstairs and left them in the foyer. The passports, tickets, and boarding passes went on the kitchen counter next to the coffeemaker. It was two-fifteen. He didn't feel like watching TV, and he was too keyed up to read. He crept back upstairs to the bedroom. Peter hadn't moved an inch. By the light on his phone, Chasten hung up his suit as quietly as he could, easing the closet door open and moving slowly. When he looked back at Peter his eyes had adjusted to the dark enough that he could clearly see him. Peter looked so much younger when he was asleep, completely at peace. He was beautiful. 

Chasten took off his glasses, got into bed. He got as close as he could to Peter, touched his forehead to Peter's just like they'd done for the photographer. Peter stirred. "Chasten?"

"Just me, babe," Chasten said. 

"Time is it?"

"A little after two. Go back to sleep."

Peter obliged. After a few seconds his breathing was slow and even. Chasten lay in bed with his husband, without moving a muscle, and he didn't even realize that he'd fallen asleep until morning when Peter kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Most of these were based on real events; if you want to know more, hit me up. Anyone who finds the line I pulled from _Due South_ gets ten points.


End file.
